


Seven Days

by Secretmonkey



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F, Long distance smut, Skype, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretmonkey/pseuds/Secretmonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy And Reagan are forced to spend a week apart.  Which leads to some Skype smut.  And then some welcome home smut.  And toss in a smidge of Karma-Amy angst for good measure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's been a week since Reagan's seen Amy.

A week.

A fucking  _week_.

Reagan never realized how slowly seven days could pass. How the seconds could just drip by, like water out of a faucet leaking into a sink that never filled.

The first day, she was OK. She and Amy talked on the phone after Amy, Bruce, Lauren, and Farrah had arrived at their hotel in Dallas.

Stupid fucking Aunt Becky. Fucking dying unexpectedly. Fucking funeral and fucking family shit.

One day, and Reagan already had fucking on the brain.

The second day, Reagan was too busy for it to bother her. She and Karma had a catering job for a sorority house at UT-Austin. And then she had a DJ gig at a frat house on the same campus. Yeah, she thought about Amy in her free moments (and some of the not so free ones), but she was so busy and running so hard, she didn't really have  _time_ to  _miss_ her.

The third day and the fourth day Reagan cleaned her apartment. Scrubbed from top to bottom, from kitchen to bath to living room. She even swept off her little - as in one person at a time sized - balcony.

By the time she was done, you could have eaten off the floor or performed surgery on the kitchen counter.

The fifth day and the sixth day? Amy was tied up - and not in the way Reagan liked to sometimes fantasize about - and couldn't even talk on the phone. So the older girl visited her dad and her brother and went bowling with her friends and they all pretended - really hard - that they didn't see her checking her phone every five minutes.

And the seventh day? Today?

Today Amy comes home..

Today Reagan gets up early to get ready. Amy was supposed to be back this afternoon, so Reagan showers, dresses, and lights candles, then blows them out - because really, who the fuck lights candles in the middle of the day, even if you are trying to set a mood - and then relights them and then paces impatiently by her door.

Amy had promised to come straight there.

No stops. No Karma's house or Shane's place. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

And then it happens.

Her phone rings. And she knows. Without even picking it up, Reagan knows

"I'm so sorry, babe. But there's this family dinner thing and my mom is insisting we go and we're not going to be back till tomorrow…"

Reagan blows out the candles and storms out of the apartment. She's mad, but she's  _madder_  that she can't really be mad because it's family and death and that shit always takes precedence, even over getting to be with your girlfriend.

So she can't really be mad, and she's not, not mad at Amy at least.

But it's been a  _week_.

So she goes shopping. Reagan hates shopping -  _hates_  it - but it's mindless and distracting and doesn't involve her sitting on the couch moping and diving for her phone every time it buzzes.

She's in some ridiculously over-priced lingerie store, trying on a new bra, when she considers - briefly - sending Amy a selfie from the fitting room.

But then she reconsiders. Because, you know, what if Farrah or Bruce or Lauren or - even worse - one of Aunt Becky's three dozen other super conservative and incredibly religious relatives happens to pick up Amy's phone.

How would they react to a provocatively posed, mostly topless - OK, probably totally topless - Latina lesbian selfie on sweet and innocent Amy's phone.

Yeah, like that  _doesn't_ make the decision easy for her.

And so Reagan snaps a shot of herself, the new black lace bra she's about to buy pulled down just enough to expose almost all of her breasts, the mall's AC working it's magic - like the thought of Amy seeing this isn't enough to make her nipples hard all on its own - and she's biting her lip and giving the camera what she hopes is her most lustful expression.

She sends the pic off to Amy, packs up her intended purchases and heads for the register. The woman behind the counter has just handed Reagan her receipt when her phone buzzes.

Amy's response is simple. Two words.

_Fuck. Me._

_That's the plan_ , Reagan texts back, making a beeline for Starbucks to get a frappuccino or an iced coffee or something to cool her down.

_Are you home? Are you alone?_

Reagan's mouth goes dry as she reads Amy's words on the screen. She can't be thinking… no… that's not like her.

_Give me fifteen minutes and I can be_.

Amy's response comes ten seconds later.

_Make it ten._ Reagan grins and her phone buzzes again.  _Hurry._

Twelve minutes later - a new record for her - Reagan's barely in the door when she hears her laptop beeping in her bedroom. She drops the bags and makes a dash for it, diving onto the bed just in time to answer Amy's Skype call.

"Hey, Shrimps," she says. "So you liked my…"

The words die in her throat at the sight on her screen. In fact, Reagan thinks, she might have just lost the power of speech permanently.

Amy's in a hotel room, the lights low - and Reagan can only assume the blinds pulled  _tightly_  shut - and her hair is all wavy and tousled, the way Reagan loves it best.

And she would so compliment Amy on that. If noticing her hair was at all possible. Because, Reagan realizes quickly, when Amy Raudenfeld is standing before you - even on a computer screen - in nothing but a dark red push-up bra, a pair of matching stockings and garters and - are you  _fucking_  serious? -  _nothing_  else?

Yeah, her hairstyle is the last thing on your mind.

"You like?" Amy asks and Reagan can only nod and barely even that. "I was going to wear this today when we came home, as a surprise." Amy leans back against the bed behind her, arching her back and staring right into Reagan's eyes. "Surprise…"

Reagan doesn't know what to say or what to do or - at this point - what planet she's on. This is so not like Amy. Even now, even after months of dating, this is so not something she would have ever expected her girlfriend to do.

This is just so…  _hot_.

Reagan finally finds her voice again. "If you're going to get me gifts like that," she says, "you may need to go away more often."

Amy shakes her head. "No," she says. "No more trips. No more time apart." She smiles into the webcam and, for a moment, supermodel Amy is gone. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, Shrimps," Reagan says. "And I don't care how many sexy outfits you bring back, as long as you come home to me."

Amy shifts on the bed, letting one long leg - and fuck me, Reagan thinks, have they always been  _that_  long - stretch out invitingly in front of the camera.

"Tell me," she says and  _that's_ a tone Reagan's never heard before, but if the way her stomach just tightened and her heart sped up is any indication, she wants to hear it a lot more often.

"Tell you what?" she asks and she has to swallow down a moan as Amy shifts again, just enough to remind Reagan that's she not wearing any underwear.

"What do you miss?" Amy asks. She reaches up and slowly slides one bra strap down and Reagan's eyes trace every inch of the movement. "What do you miss about me?"

Reagan watches as Amy's hand slowly moves back up her arm, fingers tracing over the skin of her shoulder and then down, lightly caressing the swell of her breast.

"Your skin," she finally croaks out.

Amy pauses, her hand just barely cupping her breast, one finger dangerously close to the hard nipple Reagan can see poking through the fabric.

"My skin?"

Reagan nods slowly, her eyes never leaving the blonde's hand. "It's so soft," she says. "The way it feels under my fingers." Her eyes flick up to Amy's. "The way it tastes on my tongue."

She can hear Amy let out one shuddering breath and Reagan can't help but smile. Two can play this game, she thinks.

"What do you miss about  _me_?" she asks Amy and, as she does, she tugs her own shirt up and over her head, tossing it into the corner of the room.

Amy's pupils dilate at the sight and she almost forgets to answer the question. "What do  _I_  miss?" she asks. "That's easy. Your lips."

Reagan's hands disappear out of Amy's view as she frantically works at the button of her jeans. "Why my lips?"

"Because they're  _fucking_ perfect," Amy says. "So soft and wet and God, when you kiss me…"

Amy's fingers stroke softly against her skin and Reagan's not sure she even knows she's doing it.

"Do you remember our first night?" Amy asks and Reagan nods. "Do you remember the first time you made me cum?"

Reagan pauses, her jeans halfway down her legs, rendered completely speechless by those words.

_You made me cum._

"It was your lips," Amy says, not waiting for an answer. "It started when you kissed my neck and you kept pressing your lips against my skin. Here and here and here…"

Amy's other hand traces soft lines against the skin of her neck, mimicking the path Reagan followed that first night.

"And then you moved lower," Amy says, her hand skimming down over her collarbone, to the top of her breast. "Do you remember?"

Finally kicking free of her jeans, Reagan reclines back onto the bed. "Yes," she says. "You tasted like vanilla and strawberries. I couldn't get enough."

"You teased me," Amy says. Her fingers slide slowly beneath the cup of her bra and Reagan realizes she's holding her breath. "You kissed me," Amy says, "and then you'd pull away, waiting until I couldn't stand it anymore and then you'd kiss me again."

Reagan remembers. She remembers the way Amy's back arched up off the bed, the way Amy's hands tangled in her hair, desperately trying to keep the contact, to keep Reagan's lips from sliding off her skin.

"And you kept getting closer," Amy breathes, as she slowly tugs the bra lower. "Closer and closer, but you would never just give me what I wanted."

Reagan's hand clutches at her thigh, her nails digging into the sensitive skin. "And what was it you wanted?" she asks.

"Your lips," Amy says without hesitation. She slides the bra down completely, her fingers moving quickly to capture her newly freed nipple. "I wanted your lips, right  _here_."

Reagan can only watch, transfixed, as Amy's fingers pinch and tug gently at her nipple, her thumb massaging against it.

"And then, when you finally did," she says, "when you finally kissed me there… when those perfect fucking lips wrapped around me and I felt your tongue flicking…"

Amy stares directly into the camera, right into Reagan's eyes.

"That was the first time," she says. "That was the first time you ever made me cum."

Reagan moans and grips at her thong with both hands, sliding it down and off her legs, barely even registering how fucking soaked it is. She returns her eyes to the screen just in time to see Amy stretch out against the headboard, her legs still pressed together, her hands resting on top of her thighs.

"I miss your lips," Amy says. "I miss your tongue and the way it feels running over every inch of me. I miss your hair and the way it feels when I bury my fingers in it while those lips and that tongue are between my thighs."

Reagan can wait no longer and she runs one finger down through her folds, sliding back up to the top, her brain marvelling at how wet she is just from Amy's words. Her eyes squeeze shut at the jolt of pleasure that runs up her body as two fingers dance lightly over her clit.

"You know what I miss the most, though?" Amy asks as she spreads her legs just a little, one hand gently caressing the inside of her thigh while the other cups her breast. "Your  _eyes_ ," she says.

Reagan's eyes pop open and she lets out a guttural moan as she sees Amy's hand move further down between her legs.

"That's right," Amy says. "Look at me. That's what I miss." Amy's legs slip further apart as she slowly loses control, and Reagan can see her fingers sliding against her lips, one of them dipping inside her, just barely, before Amy pulls it back out and moves up, using her own wetness as she rolls her clit beneath her thumb.

"I love when you look at me," she says and as Reagan moves her other hand down her body, pressing first one and then another finger inside, all she can do is  _look_  at Amy.

"It's the way you look at me when you don't think I notice," Amy says. "Or the way you look at me when you haven't seen me in a day or two." The words come out in broken, shuddering whispers. "I can see  _it_ ," she says. "How much you want me. How much you  _need_  me."

Amy's fingers work feverishly against her clit and Reagan tries to keep pace. She wants them to finish together.

"Do you have… any… idea," Amy's panting now, every flick and flex of her fingers sending tiny little shockwaves through her. "Any idea what that does to me?" she asks. "Do you know how fucking wet you make me just by looking at me?"

Reagan moans, a whispered ' _fuck_ ' slipping from her lips.

"That's what does it," Amy says. "Every fucking time. That's what makes me cum." She groans out the word. "It's not your lips or your tongue," she says.

"Amy…" Reagan whimpers out her name and then bites down on her lip, her body so fucking close to the edge.

"Every time," Amy gasps. "I look down, I look at you feasting on me and you look up at me with those eyes, like you can't ever get enough…"

She can't. Reagan's been hooked on Amy since the beginning and once she'd had her, once she'd had a taste…

"Rea… look at me… please…"

Reagan does. She looks right at her, drinking her all in. The way the sweat shines against her skin. The way her hand squeezes her breast, two finger tugging and pinching and pulling on her nipple as she moans her way toward her climax. The way her legs shake and tremble as it all builds inside her.

The way her eyes search out Reagan's, the way their gazes lock as they both roll over the top, moaning as the rush ripples through them. Reagan watches as Amy's orgasm rushes through her, the sight of her girlfriend cumming more than enough to finish her as well.

It might be minutes, it might be an hour, fuck - it might be a day, for all she can tell - when Reagan hears Amy speak again.

"Holy shit," she says and Reagan laughs. "That was… "

"Yeah," Reagan says. "It was. But Shrimps?"

"Yeah, Rea?" Amy's head is tipped back and she doesn't seem like she's going to move any time soon.

"If you think that was good?" Reagan says. "Just wait till you get home."


	2. Forgetting

It's been a week.

A week since Amy's seen Reagan.

A week since they've been in the same place. A week since she heard her girlfriend's husky voice - and dear God, the things that voice does to her - in person instead of over a phone line or a computer speaker.

A fucking  _week_.

Amy never realized how long a week was. She never saw it as anything more than seven days.

She's done the math. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

And Amy's pretty sure she's felt every one of them.

And that Skype call didn't help matters any.

OK. So maybe it helped  _some_  matters. And maybe it's been on Amy's mind pretty much every moment since.

You watch Reagan come all over herself - because she's watching  _you_  come all over yourself - and see if you can think of much else.

And it isn't like Reagan wasn't on her mind before that. It isn't like Amy hasn't been thinking about her damn near non-stop since their chaste

(in front of Amy's family and Shane  _and_  Karma)

kiss good-bye.

And Lord knows she's thought about Reagan like  _that_  a whole hell of a lot of the last seven days.

At least 300,000 of those seconds.

At  _least_.

But, for Amy, there's been something else. Something she didn't expect. Something fantastic and scary and wonderful and terrifying and…

did she mention wonderful?

Or scary?

She didn't notice if for the first day or so. She was so busy with the family stuff - unexpected deaths have a way of occupying people's time - that she hardly noticed it.

Plus, she got to talk to Reagan. Even if was just checking in, letting her know they got to the hotel, reminding her to be nice to Karma when they worked their catering gig.

And even just hearing her voice was enough.

Enough to make her happy.

(And wet. Surprisingly wet. And thank God for noisy bathroom fans to disguise certain noises you'd rather not have your step-sister hear.)

By the third day - right about the time she had her fourth helping of Aunt Laura's pescatarian casserole - it was starting to sink in.

She missed Reagan.

_Missed_.

Not just in the 'I really miss your lips' or 'I really miss cuddling on the couch under a blanket with you' or 'I really miss the way you like to use your fingers on me  _under_  that blanket on the couch' way.

In the 'Oh, I am so royally fucked cause I'm head over heels ass-backwards in love with you' kinda way.

And, by then end of day four, it isn't the sounds of 'solo sapphic sexy time' (fuck you very much for  _that_  Shane) that Amy's using the bathroom fan to hide.

She'd almost rather have Lauren hear that than hear her crying.

Amy hasn't missed anyone like this since… well… since  _ever._

And that's something she just doesn't know what the fuck to do with.

Except really wish that Reagan was here to help her figure it out.

* * *

Eventually, Amy does remember one other time this happened to her.

She was eleven. Farrah and step-dad number two - or was it three? - took her on a two-week long slow ride to hell.

Otherwise known as California.

(And, when she says hell, she's not kidding. She's pretty sure, though Farrah will never confirm it, that that drive is why step-dad two/three is no longer in the picture.)

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Without her room, her laptop (brand new back then), her music, her books, Netflix.

Without Karma.

The first four days of that trip were the worst. Amy remembers constantly crying in the back seat of step-dad two/three's beat up old station wagon. She remembers missing Karma so much it caused her physical pain.

Her mother kept her dosed on Tylenol for most of the first couple of days.

(Or, what Farrah claimed was tylenol. Amy suspects Benadryl, to knock her out and reduce the bawling to a mere sniffling.)

The third day, they stopped just outside Flagstaff, Arizona so step-dad could see the Sunst Crater Volcano and hike the Lava Trail.

"Isn't it amazing?" has asked, the three words broken up by a huff and a puff and a wheeze (the man was in what Farrah called Santa-shape). "A volcano," he said, "right here in America."

Yeah, Amy thought. Cause there aren't  _any_  of those.

He dragged them along, ignoring Farrah's continuous suggestions that they turn back  _and_  Amy's increasingly green complexion.

When she puked off the side of the Lava Trail, leaving her own molten mess, he finally caved in.

"I told you," he said. "I told you not to get the fish tacos last night. Never get fish tacos - or fish  _anything_  - from a roadside cart."

Farrah nodded in apparent agreement and handed Amy a bottle of water. She knew full fucking well that it wasn't fish tacos or anything else Amy had eaten - this was  _Amy_  they were talking about - that was doing it.

It was misery. It was loneliness. It was missing something. Like her left arm. Or a foot.

It was Karma.

The ride back to the hotel was long and quiet and Amy spent most of it trying desperately not to lose her lunch again.

(They may not have been the cause, but those fish tacos? Those fuckers were a bitch coming back up.)

When step-dad number two (Amy's pretty sure it was two) ventured off to use the hotel pool, Farrah stayed behind.

She wanted to keep an eye on Amy, she said,

And not having to see him with his shirt off more than necessary, might have had a little something to do with it.

(Farrah was usually love blind when she said 'I do'. It was only  _after_  the ceremony that she started considering the return policy on her latest spousal purchase.)

She pressed a cold washcloth to Amy's forehead and smiled at her daughter.

Amy panicked, her stomach flipping over and almost evacuating again.

(That was how her Nana always said it. Evacuating.)

(Crazy ass old woman.)

But Amy was seriously scared. Farrah was being nice. Farrah was being considerate and caring and… smiling.

Farrah was being a mother.

Amy flashed on her funeral and a tombstone.

_Here lies Amy Raudenfeld She taught us a lot._

_Like don't eat food cart fish tacos._

"You want to talk about it?" Farrah asked, smiling a little more at the confused expression on her daughter's face. "I know it wasn't the tacos," she said, by way of explanation.

"You want to talk about it?" Farrah asked, smiling a little more at the confused expression on her daughter's face. "I know it wasn't the tacos," she said, by way of explanation.

Amy shrugged, which did nothing to help her tummy. She was nervous. Wary. This whole friendly Farrah thing - which usually only happened right after she'd met a new potential step-dad - was throwing her for a loop.

"You miss her, don't you?" Farrah asked. Amy had no doubt who 'her' was. "This is the longest you two have been apart in years."

Amy could only nod. She knew it was true, just as surely as she knew Karma could probably tell you exactly how many hours and minutes it had been.

The thought made her smile.

"It's good," Farrah said. "It's good that you have someone who matters to you that much. And who feels the same way about you."

Farrah stared off into the distance, a look on her face that Amy couldn't quite place.

(Eleven-year-old Amy couldn't. Fifteen, almost sixteen-year-old Amy can. She even has a word for it.)

(Wistful.)

"But?"

At eleven, Amy might not have known 'wistful; but she could still sense when there was a 'but' coming.

"But," Farrah said, her smile faltering just a little, "Karma's not always going to be there, Amy. I know that's hard to believe now, but…"

Amy shook her head, a decision she - and her stomach - immediately regretted.

"People change, sweetie," Farrah said, rearranging the cold cloth on her daughter's head. "And someday, you might meet someone special. A nice boy, someone who makes you forget about Karma."

Amy was thinking that no boy could  _ever_  make her forget about Karma.

Farrah was picturing that someone special in her head. Someone nice. Someone who cared about Amy  _all_  the time. Someone who wouldn't hurt her, even unintentionally.

A nice boy Amy could really settle down with and depend on and not - like her mother - have to trade in for a newer model every two years.

If they had only known then…

Amy shook her head, slowly. "Karma and I are  _different_ ," she said, sitting up in order to try and emphasize her point.

_That_  might have been more effective if she didn't end up doubled-over, dry heaving off the side of the bed.

But, effective or not, Amy was sure. She was  _sure_ she was right.

She and Karma  _were_  different. They were more than best friends. Closer than sisters.

At eleven, Amy didn't know about  _soulmates_  just yet.

But then a funny thing happened. One Amy has, more or less, forgotten over the years.

She woke up the next morning, feeling a bit better, if still a little queasy. And, as she loaded herself into the back of the station wagon - the window rolled halfway down - just in case - Farrah's words kept replaying in her mind.

_Karma won't always be there._

_Someone who makes you forget about Karma._

Amy was sure someone with that power - that fucking magic - didn't exist. She was  _sure_.

Which is why she never once mentioned to Farrah how often she returned to that thought over the next eleven days.

Or how much easier it made the rest of the trip.

* * *

Seven days.

A week.

168 hours. 10, 080 -

"Stop," Farrah says, holding up a hand. "Amy, just stop."

Amy does, reluctantly.

"I know it's been a week," her mother says, leaning against the back of Bruce's car as her husband and stepdaughter lufg bags out of the trunk. "I know this is the longest you and Reagan have been apart -"

"So, you know why I  _have_  to go."

Farrah bites back the smile that fights to crease her lips. This is what she's imagined for Amy so many times.

OK, so maybe all those times the person on the other end of the equation had been a little…. different.

(A boy, her mind screams. He was a  _boy_.)

But gender and sexuality are so  _not_  the point here. The point is very simple.

Amy's found someone.

And while Farrah is eternally grateful - for her daughter's sake - that Amy and Karma are seemingly getting over the whole faking it-rejection-sleeping with that stupid Booker boy trifecta of shit, she's also glad that there's someone  _else_  Amy cares for. Someone else she values in her life.

Someone who, judging from the number of text messages Amy got on the drive home - especially during the three hours of gridlock they got stuck in - cares for her just as much.

But that doesn't change simple facts. Not in the least.

"Amy," Farrah says, trying to dredge up whatever remnants of her 'mother;y' voice she can find after this hellish week, "it is two in the morning. We have been on the road for hours. You are  _not_  driving over to Reagan's place now."

Amy starts to protest, even going as far as to  _consider_  suggesting that maybe Reagan could come over to the house instead.

And then she remembers the Skype chat.

The sight of Reagan fucking herself to a monstrous orgasm

The  _sound_  of Reagan fucking herself to a monstrous orgasm.

(and the sounds of her own, too.)

So, yeah. Maybe Reagan coming to the house wouldn't be such a good idea.

"But, mom," Amy starts, only to be cut off again.

By Bruce.

"Amy, you heard your mother."

It's one of the rare times Amy can remember Bruce saying much of anything to her, certainly nothing approaching discipline.

And while she stands there, gobsmacked, Farrah kisses Bruce on the cheek, collects her one small make-up bag from the trunk and heads inside.

Bruce waits until she's clearly through the door before he says anything else.

"I used to have to spend three or four days a week on the road for work," he says, and it takes Amy a moment or two to realize he's talking to her. "By the time I was headed home, I missed Lauren's mama something fierce."

Amy can count the number of times Bruce or Lauren has mentioned her mother on one hand.

So… yeah… gobsmacked. Again.

"Your mother said you aren't  _driving_  over there," Bruce says. "And I'm sure she's going to be checking to make sure the cars are all here."

Amy just stares at him blankly and Bruce shakes his head.

His stepdaughter is one of the smartest people he knows.

But sometimes she can be so fucking dumb.

Bruce casts his eyes down toward the cell phone still clutched in Amy's hand. "She said you weren't driving," he repeats. " _You_. Not  _driving_. Understand?"

And the hallelujah, the light dawns, the sun rises…

She gets it.

She starts toward the house, pauses, and then doubles back, planting a quick kiss on Bruce's cheek before dashing back inside, dialing Karma's number as she goes.

Bruce shakes his head and laughs.

Farrah's going to  _kill_  him later.

* * *

Under other circumstances, Amy thinks, this would seem weird.

Karma's driving her to Reagan's apartment - in the  _Good Karma_  truck - at two-thirty in the morning.

But it's been seven days.

A week.

Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

A week.

Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.

Amy glances over at Karma behind the wheel. The streetlights shine through the windshield and - as the light glints off Karma's 'Best Friends' necklace - Amy curses their well-lit neighborhoods.

And fuck the circumstances.

This  _is_  weird.

"Thanks again for doing this," Amy says, her embarrassment at what she says

(thanks for taking me to get fucked)

outweighed by the uncomfortable silence in the truck.

"No problem," Karma replies, her voice steady enough that Amy almost believes her.

And she might have - or at least  _let_ herself believe - if Karma had stopped there.

But when does Karma  _ever_  stop there?

"I mean, I totally understand," she says. "I'm surprised I haven't gotten awakened in middle fo the night to steal a smoothie truck to drive you to a booty call before now."

When she puts it that way…

"It's not a booty call," Amy says. "I mean, I'm not even going to be there long enough for there to be booty, much less a call."

Karma rolls her eyes. Sometimes she wonders how she ever became best friends with such a dork.

"Right," she says, repeating what Amy said to her when she called. "Five minutes, Karms. In and out. I just can't go another night without seeing her."

Amy almost misses the slight bite of bitterness in her best friend's tone.

Almost.

"I'm sorry," Amy says. "I shouldn't have called you. But I tried Shane and he was drunk and the only other people I know with cars, or access to them, are you and…"

Amy trails off as she realizes where that sentence was going.

The forbidden territory. The thing that shall not be named.

The elephant in every fucking room.

Liam.

Amy's suddenly wishing very much that she'd just stayed home.

Karma says nothing for a minute or two and Amy is wondering if maybe she should just dive out the side door of the truck.

"He'd have done it, you know."

Amy nods, purely out of reflex. "Wait… what?"

"He'd have done it," Karma says. "He'd have probably showed up with the Squirkle fucking limo and a chauffeur."

"Why?" Amy asks, though she has an inkling she already knows the answer.

"Because," Karma says, turning down Reagan's street just a little faster than she should. "He thinks you're the key to winning me back."

So, OK. Maybe an inkling was a bit too strong. Because Amy did not see  _that_  coming.

"Why would.. how… why…"

She trails off.

Gobsmacked. Again.

Karma pulls into the parking lot of Reagan's apartment complex and kills the engine. "Liam's got this idea in his head that you and he are sort of friends."

Amy can't help but notice the way Karma's staring at her. And if it wasn't so dark, she's pretty sure she'd be able to see the question in her best friend's eyes.

"I mean, I guess, maybe…" Amy has never been overly skilled in social situations. This is taking that to a whole other level. "He's not as big a fuckboy as I thought he was," she finally relents. "But I wouldn't call us friends."

" _He_  would," Karma says, turning her gaze out the windshield. "And he thinks if he can convince  _you_  that he's not a player asshole - you know, the kind of guy who would fuck his girlfriend's best friend - then maybe you'll convince me."

Amy lets the whole 'girlfriend' / 'best friend' / 'fucking' bit go by. It's safer that way. "He told you all that?"

Karma shakes her head. "No," she says. "Shane did. He said I deserved to know." She stares down at her hands in her lap. It's better, she's learned, if she doesn't consider what she deserves or not. "I guess finding out about you two earned me some pity points."

Amy figures, knowing Shane, they were more like 'I feel guilty for telling Liam the truth the night of the wedding' points.

"Well," she says. "He can forget it. The last thing I will ever do is help Liam Booker hurt you again."

She thinks it's the right thing to say. She thinks it's the best friend thing to say.

Which really should just make it obvious.

They're  _so_  not there right now.

"You think he would?" Karma asks and Amy immediately realizes her mistake. "You think he doesn't really love me and he'd just break my heart again?"

And instead of gobsmacked, Amy just feels smacked. Right upside the head with the obviousness of what she should have seen.

Karma's still in love. With  _him_.

Amy sighs and leans her head against her window. She's torn, really she is. She wants to work this out with Karma. She wants to make this better.

She knows the fuck ups are adding up and she's running out of second chances.

But… Reagan… seven days…

"Look," she finally says. "I'll be in there like five, ten minutes, tops. And when I get back down here, you and I will head over to that all night diner on Silas. The one with the milkshakes?"

Karma nods. But she doesn't smile.

Amy finds the handle for the door in the dark and hops onto the pavement. "And we'll talk," she says. "Like we used to. And we'll figure this whole fuckboy Liam shit out. OK?"

"Ten minutes," Karma says.

"Tops," Amy replies. closing the door behind her. "I'll be right back."

* * *

The first knock doesn't do a thing.

The second earns a muffled 'what the fu…" Close enough to the door that Amy figures Reagan fell asleep on the couch again.

The third knock - the loudest and longest - finally gets the door open.

Reagan stands there staring at Amy, her expression a cross between disbelief, annoyance, and a rapidly increasing amount of something Amy can only describe as 'I am going to literally fuck you to death.'

"Amy?"

The blonde nods, which is the only thing she  _can_  do because after seven days, seeing Reagan like this

(in her donut shirt, tied up under her breasts, and a very, very, very tiny pair of panties)

has pretty much rendered Amy incapable of much else.

So it's good that Reagan grabs her by the arms and pulls her into the apartment, swinging the door shut behind her.

Which is only so she has something to pin Amy against as she kisses her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind - the part that's still barely functional - Amy remembers something about lips.

_Why my lips?_

_Because they're fucking perfect_

_So soft and wet and God, when you kiss me…_

And then there's a tongue -  _Reagan's_  tongue - sliding along her bottom lip and Amy chases it with her own, back into her girlfriend's mouth and she can't stifle a moan - a loud, deep, 'fuck me' kinda moan - as Reagan's lips close, sucking on it even as her hands slip between Amy's ass and the door.

Reagan backs away, grinning, and Amy know before she even says it.

"I win," Reagan says. "That's four in a row. Four straight time I made you moan first."

Amy distinctly recalls something a little different. She remembers saying something

_That was the first time you ever made me cum_

during that Skype call that made Reagan moan. Made  _her_ moan  _first_.

But Amy knows her girlfriend and knows how hyper competitive she is. She knows they'd just e spend all of Amy's ten minutes up here arguing about whether a Skype call really counts.

(It totally does)

And she only has ten minutes - tops - and she doesn't want to spend them arguing.

"Fine," Amy says, leaning back against the door, "You win. I didn't come here for that anyway."

Reagan steps back and leans against the arm of the couch, crossing her legs in front of her.

And if that movement happens to tense her abs, just happens to let her lean back, her chest

(which Amy is quite sure is not covered in a bra)

pushing out just a bit against the tight fabric of the shirt

(and donuts? Covering Reagan's breasts?)

(Amy never had a chance)

well, that's purely coincidental.

"So why are you here then?" Reagan asks. "I thought you couldn't get away till the morning."

"I couldn't wait," Amy says. Normally, she tries to hold onto some semblance of dignity and pride and whatever. But seven days has pretty much killed that. "And I've only got ten minutes, tops, but… I needed to see you."

Reagan's glad that her heart isn't one of the parts of her that Amy can see right then.

Watching it race would totally kill her advantage.

"See me?" Reagan asks and the tone in her voice… shit… Amy knows then and there.

She's not getting out of here in ten minutes.

And then Reagan is untying - slowly - the shirt. She lets it hang loose for a minute, dangling past her calves, and then she pulls it up.

So. Fucking. Slow.

Amy swallows hard when the shirt - the fabric bunched in Reagan's hands - rises high enough for her to see the underside of her girlfriend's breasts.

She has to hold onto the doorknob to keep from charging across the room.

She's not giving in that easily.

(She'll give in, they both  _know_ that. But she wants to make Reagan work for it. At least a little.)

Reagan leans back against the couch as she pulls the shirt higher, slowly, methodically, inch by perfectly tan inch, revealing herself to Amy.

And Reagan wins - again - when she hears Amy let out a low moan as Reagan runs a hand across her now bare breasts, her palm brushing gently across her nipples.

But, when she leans back up to look at her girlfriend, Reagan can't help but let out a moan herself as she sees Amy's hand - the one not crushing the doorknob - squeezing and palming her own breast through her t-shirt.

"Fuck," Reagan moans, the sight of it enough to make her consider - for just a second - giving up the ghost and taking Amy right then and there, right against the door.

The thought of it, of Amy's leg thrown over her shoulder while she feasts on her, while she sucks her clit until Amy's begging her to stop, is enough to drive Reagan's hands between her own legs.

She is, not surprisingly, soaked.

Reagan's hands start to make their way toward her hips, toward the waistband of her panties.

She's going to slip them off. That's the plan. Slip them off and the saunter - and yes, she can fucking  _saunter_ \- toward her bedroom. The sight of her naked ass and her swaying hips, she figures, should be all the enticement Amy needs.

Amy, on the other hand, is having none of it.

Or, more accurately,  _all_  of it.

Now. Here. Fuck the waiting and the sauntering and everything else.

She's across the room before Reagan even sees her move, and on her knees before Reagan can think.

Amy doesn't bother with sliding the panties down. Instead, she hooks two fingers under the fabric, pulling it aside to expose Reagan to her.

The older girl hasn't even finished shuddering from the feel of the cool, air-conditioned air blowing across her lips when Amy attacks.

By now, Reagan's almost memorized Amy's routine.

Two licks. One up, then one down before she slowly - just like Reagan likes it - presses her tongue inside of her, swirling it around for a moment before - just as slowly - pulling it back out.

And then it's a finger -  _two_ , lately - inside, while Amy swirls and flicks and sucks on Reagan's clit, bringing her so close, over and over again.

Amy's learned a lot these last few months. Nothing more important than how to tell  _exactly_  when Reagan's about to come.

So she can stop.

Wait.

Wait.

And then start again.

Sometimes, when they have all the time in the world, Amy will push Reagan, will see how far she can go before she cracks, before she can't handle it anymore.

And that's when Amy finally hits the beat, fingers pumping in and out in time with a steady lapping against her clit. But always -  _always_  - slipping down, letting her tongue find it's way back inside Reagan as she comes.

Sometimes, when Reagan tangles her hands in Amy's hair and she holds her there, keeping her tongue working on her clit, and Amy misses her 'treat'?

Well, then the blonde just pins Reagan down and does it all over again until she gets what she wants.

It's pretty much perfect. And Reagan's been looking forward to it for seven long fucking days.

So, when Amy changes it up, when she - quite literally - just fucking goes for it, Reagan almost loses her balance and only the arm of the couch holds her up.

"Fuck," she cries out as Amy's tongue foregoes its usual licks and instead finds her clit. And this isn't Amy's usual gentle lapping, her typical soft and gentle sucking.

Amy flattens her tongue against the older girl's clit , shaking her head lightly from side to side - and fuck me,  _that's_ new - and then sucks it into her mouth, clamping down with enough force that the sensations drive Reagan on to her tip toes.

She doesn't know if she wants to escape or never ever move again.

Amy pulls back for a second, letting her lips pop as she does, before diving right back in, her tongue buried inside Reagan even as the older girl is still trying to absorb what the fuck just happened.

"Jesus...Amy… fuck…" Reagan hears her girlfriend moaning into her and looks down, stunned to find that Amy - Amy who needed the lights off the first few times they did this - has unbuttoned her jeans and has her hand between her legs, frantically rubbing her own clit, her legs quivering already.

And, as Reagan watches, Amy comes on her own fingers, moaning against her girlfriend, a muffled and drawn out 'fuuuuuuuck' being swallowed up by Reagan's soaked pussy.

And that's it.

That's all Reagan can take.

She doesn't know exactly when Amy found this other side of herself, but she'll be damned if she isn't going to take advantage.

Reagan pushes Amy away, ignoring the blonde's whimpers as she does, standing up and turning, peeling off her panties in the process.

She drops to her knees, watching as she soaks Amy's t-shirt, realizing that her girlfriend is still - mostly - dressed.

And that doesn't make this any hotter. Nope. Not even a little.

"You know what I want," Reagan says.

Amy nods, but doesn't say a word. Instead, she grips Reagan around her thighs - and fuck they feel so good in her hands - and pulls the older girl forward, guiding her up until Reagan takes over, settling herself down onto Amy's face.

And fucking hell does Reagan love the way Amy moans as she slips her tongue inside her and the way Amy's hands grip her thighs, pulling her down harder, grinding Reagan down onto her tongue and her lips, soaking her face.

The first one takes less than a minute. Less than sixty seconds before Reagan has her hands tangled in Amy's hair and is moaning out her name.

The second one comes almost immediately after, as Amy comes too, swallowing down everything Reagan has to offer her and moaning into her girlfriend, the vibration of that alone enough to push Reagan over the edge again.

It's two to two, then - not that Reagan's keeping score

(she totally is)

But she'll be quite content to lose this game in the end. But that end?

Oh, that's gonna be a while.

After all, Amy's still - mostly - dressed.

And Reagan remembers, didn't Amy say something about ten minutes?

She's about to remind her, about to point out that it's been at  _least_  that long.

But then Amy's hands slide to Reagan's hips, swiveling her back and forth, grinding her down.

And Reagan forgets. They both do.

* * *

It's four-forty in the morning when the complex's security patrol knocks on Karma's widow, waking her.

"Miss? Miss?"

Karma's head snaps up from the steering wheel - and yeah, she's gonna have an imprint of the the Chevy logo on her face for a few hours - and she blinks as she stares at the guard.

She rolls down the window. "I'm sorry," she says, "did I do something wrong?"

"I saw you on patrol," he says. "This is my third time around and you're still here. Are you here waiting for someone?"

Karma takes a quick peek at her phone, sees the time in big, bright numbers.

"No," she says softly. "I guess I'm not."


	3. Rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan tries to fix things between Amy and Karma. She takes Shane's advice on how to do it. That might - just might - involve tying her girlfriend up. A little plot, some good friendship, and a touch (or more) of smut.

"It's been a week."

Shane takes a sip of his drink, some bright green colored thing Reagan swears by and his lips pucker at the sour. "So?" he asks, holding the glass out in front of him and staring at it doubtfully.

Reagan really needs to start playing clubs with better bartenders.

"Seven days, Shane," Reagan says. She slaps at the knobs on her deck and Don't Can't Won't Stop blares through the club. It's ThrowBack Thursday and the older than usual crowd whoops and hollers and raps along.

"Still not seeing the problem," Shane says. Seven days of Karmy radio silence? Sign him the fuck up. "Wait," he says, pausing with the glass of little green death in front of his lips. "Is she doing that whole hours, minutes, and seconds since they spoke bullshit?" He takes a sip and shudders at both the memory and the sour burn that scalds his tongue.

Reagan shakes her head. "Amy hasn't mentioned it," she says. "Not a word. I had to hear about it from Lauren. Amy didn't even tell me Karma was in my fucking parking lot while we were…"

Shane arches an eyebrow - a move he usually doesn't do around her because, well, Reagan - and grins expectantly, hoping for the details of, as he puts it, "some sexy Sapphic sweetness".

Reagan flips him off and dials the song back, smoothly segueing into Girls as the Beastie's segment of the evening rolls on.

"I checked Amy's phone," Reagan says, as she stares down at the dance floor.

Shane's head snaps around and his eyes widen. "Snooping?"

Reagan shrugs. It's not something she's proud of, but these were desperate times. "Nothing," she says. "Not an unreturned text, not a missed or ignored call. Not one."

"Well," Shane says, "that's not that weird…"

He doesn't even need to look to feel the glare she's shooting him. This is Amy and Karma.

It is that weird.

"In the entire time I've known Amy," Reagan says, "I've never known Karma to go more than seven hours without contact, much less seven days." She fiddles with the dials, fading the song in and out so the crowd can echo the chorus.

"And this is a bad thing?" Shane asks. He swirls the glass in his hand, hoping she won't notice he's too chicken shit to take another sip. "I'd have thought maybe not having your girlfriend's fake ex she was secretly in love with who recently found out that said girlfriend fucked her boyfriend around might be… I don't know… a relief?"

Well, when you put it that way…

"I don't care if Karma's around or not," Reagan says. "But Amy does. Even if, right now, she's not admitting it." She cues up the next song, bumping from the Beasties to Love Shack - and only Reagan could somehow make that work - and drops into the chair next to him. "But I know Amy's thinking about it. All the fucking time."

"You know what she's thinking about?" Shane asks. "Wait… is that lesbian ESP thing real?"

She snatches the glass out of his hand and takes a long swallow, not puckering at all. "Why am I friends with you, again?"

"My keen fashion sense, my ability to make a sarcastic yet hysterical comment about anything, and our mutual… apathy?... toward Karma Ashcroft?" He takes the drink back and stares at it suspiciously, like it was fucking with him. "Seriously though, if you're that worried about it, maybe you should just talk to her."

Reagan looks at him. He looks at her. They both look at his drink which he quickly sets down on her deck.

"I am clearly drunk," he says.

Reagan laughs and looks back out at the crowd, scanning it for her girlfriend and Lauren who are out there, somewhere in the masses, and Amy's hanging out with Lauren willingly.

If that doesn't tell you all you need to know…

"I'm not the one she needs to talk to," Reagan says. "But there's no way Amy's going to make the first move. She's got too much guilt. She fucked up and she knows it."

"I still don't see what she did wrong," Shane says. "So she had a romantic - and dirty - reunion with her girlfriend she hadn't seen in a week."

(He's only guessing at the dirty and Reagan knows it. No matter how many times he asked, Amy wouldn't give him any of the details.)

(But her Sun-gone-supernova blush told him all he needed to know.)

"She left Karma in the car for hours, Shane," Reagan says. "She left her. She forgot her. And so now she knows she did the wrong thing but she's burying it so she doesn't have to deal."

"Nothing wrong with that," Shane says. "A little burial can be quite healthy."

Reagan can't help it, the words roll off her tongue before she even has time to think. "Like you've been burying your crush on Liam all these years?"

Shane gasps - and in the most stereotypical way possible - and brings a finger to his lips to shush her. "That is the last thing I tell you in confidence," he says. Reagan arches a brow

(so much better than he did)

and Shane relents. "Fine," he says. "That's the last thing I tell you when drunk and sad because my boyfriend wasn't around and you wouldn't give me any of the deets on your little Skype fuck with Amy."

Reagan plucks his drink from her deck and rolls the glass between her hands. "It's not healthy," she says. "Them not talking, I mean. I know their friendship… confuses me… but they're still the best friends I've ever seen." She sets the glass back down as she spots Amy waving at her from the floor. "And if she won't fix it, then I will."

"What are you gonna do?" Shane laughs. "Tie her up and make her talk to Karma?"

He takes a step back - mostly in awe - as he watches her eyebrows practically reach orbit.

And then Reagan's pushing past him, heading down the ladder to Amy, and Shane's left there, replaying the conversation in his mind to figure out what he said.

Oh.

Oh.

OH!

He heads after Reagan, grabbing his drink as he goes.

Amy may need it.

* * *

Amy's not quite sure what's going on but as her back slams up against Reagan's apartment door and her girlfriend's hands are… well… everywhere… she's pretty sure she doesn't mind.

She'd thought that she'd be over this by now, that even the simplest and lightest of touches from Reagan wouldn't make her brain short out and her knees go weak

(and her panties flood)

but it still happens every single fucking time, especially on days like today

(days after nights at the club, after nights when Reagan works too late and is too tired and they only manage to fuck for an hour or two)

and she still thinks she'll get used to it, someday, that eventually she'll at least be a little harder to turn on.

She just hopes that day is a loooooong time from now.

"Well hello to you too," Amy says. She's trying for smooth and sexy which, let's face it, aren't her strong points to begin with. And, to be fair, her efforts now are somewhat… wasted… by the moan she lets slip when Reagan's lips suck gently (and then not so gently) on her neck, right along her collarbone.

She tries to step away from the door, to push Reagan back into the room so, maybe, she can have a little of this fun too. It's only a half hearted effort though - those lips feel too good - and then Reagan takes command again, spinning her around and pinning her against the door, her hands slipping down to Amy's hips.

"Shrimps? Baby?" Her breath is warm against Amy's ear, her hands tight on the blonde's hips as she tugs her back, grinding hard against girlfriend's ass.

(And that, all by itself, is almost enough to make Reagan reconsider her plan.)

"I was thinking that maybe today we could… try something new?"

Amy shudders as Reagan breathes the last word against her skin and this fingers on her hips slip beneath the waistband of her skirt

(and she's so thanking Lauren later for insisting that only a skirt went with this top)

and she thinks, for just a moment, of protesting. Reagan's idea of 'new' can sometimes be a little overwhelming and Amy isn't quite sure she's recovered from their last 'new'

(though she is still considering a strongly worded thank you email to the developers of the magic wand and the saleswoman who recommended it to Reagan)

but when Reagan's hands tug her skirt down, just a little - just enough - and the older girl runs her hand softly across the front of Amy's thong

(already soaked through and Amy's so past the point of finding that embarrassing)

and any resistance she has left crumbles away.

"New is good," she breathes (barely) as Reagan presses tight against her. "I like new."

"I know you do, baby," Reagan says. She steps back - both of them immediately missing the contact - and takes Amy's hand, leading her to the bedroom in the back of the apartment. It's tiny - Amy says cozy, Reagan says small - but neither of them cares.

The less space they have, the closer they have to be.

Reagan enters first, taking a seat on the bed in front of Amy, her hands returning to her girlfriend's hips. She can see it in Amy's eyes, in the way they widen as she takes in the sight of the two long silk scarves tied to each bedpost, the ends of them draped over the pillow on the right side of the bed.

Amy's side.

"Rea…"

It's not quite fear in Amy's voice, though Reagan does hear the faintest hint of it - underneath the arousal - but she still asks. "Do you trust me, Shrimps?"

Amy's eyes snap from the scarves to Reagan and - just as the older girl thought - there's not a bit of doubt there. "Of course I do," Amy says.

Four little words have never cause Reagan quite so much guilt in her life and it takes everything she has to not call the whole thing off then and there.

But she knows it's for Amy's own good. She's sure the blonde will thank her later.

Thank her or kill her. Either way, really.

She guides Amy down onto the bed, kissing her gently as she settles back. Her hands slide under Amy's top, nails dragging slowly across skin

(God, those fucking abs)

and Amy moves to help, her hands reaching for the hem of her shirt, but Reagan stops her.

"I was thinking maybe you'd stay dressed for a little while," she says, but she slides one hand up under Amy's skirt, slipping just under the wet fabric of her thong. "At least… sort of dressed."

Amy bites her lip and (barely) holds back a moan, looking at Reagan like she's crazy

(and, given what Reagan's planning, Amy might not be that wrong)

but she nods even as she bucks her hips slightly, urging Reagan further. "OK," she says, "but on one condition."

"A condition?"

Amy nods. "I stay clothed," she says. "You don't." Amy smirks a little as she sees Reagan's eyes widen - she does enjoy being able to surprise her girlfriend - and she leans closer, brushing Reagan's hair behind her ear. "I'm letting you tie me up, baby. The least you can do is let your captive see every

(her hand trails down Reagan's neck)

single

(and glides over Reagan's top, brushing oh so lightly against her breast)

inch

(both hands find Reagan's hips, tugging her closer as Amy drops back onto the bed)

of you

(Amy steers Reagan over her, guiding her girlfriend to straddle her face as she drops her hands behind her head, submitting completely.)

Reagan has to close her eyes - staring down at Amy staring up at her is just a little too much - and remind herself over and over

(like there will ever be enough 'overs')

why she's doing this.

She almost never gets to see Amy like this. The younger girl might not even realize she's doing it, but she's such a fucking top and now she's just giving in and letting Reagan have her way and fuck, Reagan knows she's going to have to kick Shane's ass for not giving her this idea sooner.

Reagan leans down and wraps the first scarf around Amy's wrist, tying it tight and trying so fucking hard to ignore the soft kisses Amy's dropping along the inside her of leg, just beneath the bottom of her skirt.

"Does that feel OK," she asks. "Not too tight?" Amy shakes her head so Reagan repeats the move with the other scarf. She tugs it tight.

Just in time for the knock at the door.

Amy's eyes nearly explode from her head when Reagan stands. "You're going to answer that?"

Reagan doesn't say anything as she steps from the room. Amy can hear the door open and the muffled sounds of voices and then Reagan's back, standing in the doorway and she's got this look on her face, one Amy doesn't ever remember seeing except, maybe, once…

the night of the pageant.

When Reagan thought Amy maybe wasn't gay and maybe didn't want to be with her and Amy remembers thinking it that night.

This is what worry looks like. This is what fear looks like in Reagan's eyes.

And then Amy hears the other voice behind Reagan.

"I like your apartment."

Oh. Fuck.

She didn't.

"You didn't."

Reagan kneels next to the bed. "You're gonna thank me for this later, Shrimps," she says and she even sort of sounds like she believes in. "And I promise… if you fix this?" She leans up next to Amy's head, whispering in her ear. "I'll reward you. Very, very well."

She steps back and pushes the bedroom door open wide to reveal Karma on the other side.

Karma, who clearly is as surprised as Amy and whose eyes grow to freakish anime sized orbs of white as she sees her best friend - tied to a bed - and the notion of what Amy was about to do

(what she wanted to do)

settles in and Karma's skin glows as red as her hair.

"I'm going to kill you," Amy says to Reagan. "No. Worse," she says. "No sex. For a month."

"You'll never last," Karma says, her hand flying to her mouth as she realizes what she's said, and Amy blushes and Reagan smirks.

There might be hope for them yet.

* * *

"This wasn't my idea," Karma says.

She's sitting on the end of the bed - the end by Amy's feet because being any closer to the… tying… would be too fucking weird

(like this hasn't already far surpassed weird)

and she can't leave because Reagan locked the door when she left.

Karma checked.

"I mean, the whole us talking thing," she adds. "Not the tying you up thing. Though that wasn't my idea either." She risks a quick look at Amy and feels the blood rush to her cheeks again. "I never thought of you as the bondage type."

Karma's eyes shut as soon as the words leave her mouth and, really, she wonders why it is she speaks at all.

"Not that I thought of you as being any type, I mean who would do that? Cause I totally wouldn't think of it. Like at all. Ever. Unless, you know, I had to cause someone was putting a gun to my head -"

"Karma."

Karma's head snaps around and she looks at Amy and though her eyes have a hard time focusing on anything but the scarves

(and Reagan has some really nice scarves)

she still spots that grin on Amy's face, the one she always gets when Karma rambles in that Karma kinda way.

And the fact that it's the first time in seven days (and longer than that is she's really being honest) that Karma's seen Amy smile like that at her makes Karma's heart hurt and beat just a little faster all at once.

"Sorry," Karma says, dropping her eyes back to the floor.

It's quiet for a long minute. Karma doesn't know what else to say but Amy does.

She just… can't. But she can't leave and neither can Karma and this is fucking ridiculous because they've never been in the same room and not been able to talk and not been able to look at each other and… fuck it.

"I think," Amy says, "I should be the one saying that to you."

Karma doesn't look up, but Amy knows she has her attention.

"I messed up," she says. "And… well… that's probably putting it mildly. I really messed up and I really messed up more than once."

Karma still doesn't look up, but shrugs. "It's OK," she says. That's what friends say, right?

Best friends.

Amy fidgets, arms tensing against the scarves. "No," she says. "It's not. It's not OK, not even a little and I, for one, have no idea why you haven't kicked my ass for it by now."

Another shrug. "You've been avoiding me pretty well all week," Karma says. "Going the long way to class, having Shane run interference." She glances up at Amy. "You had Lauren ask me for my Bio notes. Lauren."

"I know," Amy says. "But in my defense...fuck." She leans her head back onto the pillow. "I have no defense," she says. "I fucked up. But… you know… there was a time when I couldn't have avoided you for seven days. You wouldn't have let me."

Karma looks down at the bed, suddenly very interested in a post in the pattern of dancing penguins on Reagan's comforter. "There was a time," she says, "when you wouldn't have tried."

Amy doesn't know what to do or what to say. She and Karma have fought before. They've fought for weeks before but even then, no matter how bad it was, they talked. Even if every other word was a thinly veiled (or not so veiled) insult, they never spent more than the few hours they needed for sleep or classes apart and they never - never - went to bed without a goodnight text.

Now they're sitting inches apart and not saying a word.

This isn't a fight. It's a war. A cold one.

And Amy's pretty sure she doesn't care about winning, but she's not sure how not to lose.

"I didn't know what to say, Karm. I still don't." Amy tips her head back and stares at the ceiling, a view she's had before in here, but she usually enjoys it a lot more. "They don't exactly make Hallmark cards for 'Sorry I fucked your boyfriend and then found a girlfriend and got to be ridiculously happy while your world fell apart.'"

Karma's quiet for a moment and Amy's worried she's lost her. But then…

"It would have to be one of the big ones."

"What?" Amy's lost.

"The card," Karma says. "It would have to be one of those jumbo oversized ones. If it was going to say all that, I mean."

Amy nods, trying to stay serious. "Yup. One of the big ones."

"Not like Liam," Karma says.

It takes a moment for it to sink in, for the words to register in Amy's brain, but when they do, her head shoots up off the pillow and she stares at Karma.

"Karma Josephina Ashcroft!"

Another shrug. "What?" Karma asks, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You know it's true."

Amy has no clue - not even the tiniest of tiny ones - how to handle this, how to react, how to… she just doesn't know. This is the first time Karma's made a comment, much less a joke, about Amy and Liam and Amy's not sure that's a sign that the cold war is defrosting or if Karma's about to launch an all out nuclear strike.

"It's OK," Karma says. "You can laugh. I did." Amy's eyes widen and Karma can practically feel them burning into her. "Shit! At my joke. I meant I laughed at my joke. In my head. Not at Liam's… little Liam… I mean, I laughed at that too, but not right then, not in front of him or anything, later, you know, like when I got home and had a chance to Squirkle it and make sure cause I didn't have a whole lot of reference -"

"Karma."

Karma doesn't have to look to know that grin is back and she allows herself a small

(the tiniest of tiny)

smile of her own. "That was the first time, you know," she says. "Just now was the first time you called him my boyfriend. You've always been so careful not to say it and I'm sure you thought I didn't notice, but…"

Amy feels like she should apologize. Again.

"I know he wasn't my boyfriend," Karma says. "Not when you and he…" she waves her hand in the air which is about the least offensive way either of them can think to say it. "And I know he dumped me because I lied and I know that was a horrible thing and I probably deserve what you two did."

"Karma, no one -"

Karma holds up a hand to stop her. "Truth is, I don't know what to think or feel or even… how… to think or feel about it. I don't even know where to start."

Amy doesn't say anything this time, she doesn't even try because she doesn't know either.

"But what you did, that night, with him," Karma says, "that was fucked up." She pauses, lettig it hang there in the air between them before settling in. "But so was what I did and I know how badly you had to be hurting. I know I broke your heart."

Amy wants to hug her, but she's sorta, well, tied up.

She stretches out her leg and bumps her foot against Karma's hip.

I'm here, it says. I'm still here.

"Someday, you and I are going to have to really hash all that shit out," Karma says. "And we'll probably both be in college and drunk and we'll probably yell at each other for a good long while." She hangs her head a little and Amy thinks she's crying.

"You've thought this out," Amy says.

Karma nods. "Yeah," she says, "and never once, not even the day when you confessed everything, not even then, did I ever think that wouldn't happen."

Amy sees it coming a mile away.

"Until this week," Karma says. Until you disappeared and avoided me and pretended I didn't exist because you left me in a parking lot until four in the fucking morning because, apparently, an orgasm or two

(six, Amy thinks, but she's not even remotely stupid enough to say it)

makes you forget your best friend."

Karma stands and moves away from the bed - as best she can - and leans against the wall. She hates saying it, she hates how pathetic it makes her sound, how desperate and demanding and selfish but… you know what?

Fuck. That.

This, Karma knows, isn't being jealous of Amy's time. This isn't being worried that Amy might find someone she loves as much as she loves her or whatever other amateur psycho babble Liam might spout at her.

Amy forgot her. Forgot. In the Good Karma truck, in a parking lot, in the middle of the fucking night and she didn't even have the decency to call the next day.

Not that Karma would have answered, but still.

"I'm sorry," Amy says and fuck all, that doesn't even start to cover it and she knows it. "I should have…" Well, really, she should have done a lot of things, a list she quickly realizes includes not saying what she's about to say. "Do you remember the night of the wedding? Right after I told you… "

Karma nods. It's not like it's a night either of them will ever forget.

"When I left, you didn't chase me," Amy says. "And I know you went to Liam and then he broke up with you. And then, I'm guessing, you went home?" Karma nods again, a little unclear as to why the hell they're discussing her behavior again.

"I spent the night crying on my mother's shoulder," she says. "What does that have to do with -"

"I'm getting there," Amy says. "I swear." She fidgets again and wonders - for the first time - why she hasn't just had Karma untie her

(but she's so not asking now)

and tries to stumble her way through what is, probably the worst apology-slash-explanation in all of recorded history.

"You could have found me. You could have tried to talk to me, tried to work things out," Amy says.

(You could have not fucked my boy… Liam…Karma thinks, but she doesn't say it.)

(But, man, does she think it.)

"And for a while… a long while… I was pissed that you didn't," Amy says. "But I kept that to myself cause, well, there was the whole feeling guilty for fucking your boyfriend thing and that kinda meant any right I had to be upset went out the window so I really didn't think about it much, except sometimes at night when I was trying to sleep - "

"Amy."

The blonde pops her head up caught in the middle of rantus interruptus. "Right. Sorry," she says. "I get it now."

Karma's lost, so very lost. "Get what?"

"Why you left that night. Why you didn't chase me," Amy says. "The same reason I've been… the way I've been for the last week. You couldn't. You couldn't chase me and try to deal with it all then because it was just too big and just too much and just too fucked all the way up and back down again."

That, Karma thinks, is about as good a description of that night as she's ever heard.

"There was so much, Karma," Amy says. "So much, too much, for me to be sorry for. I couldn't even… I didn't know where to start, what to say, how to… I didn't know, so I just didn't." She kicks her feet against the blanket, trying to push herself up. "I didn't and I should have and I'm so sorry, you have no idea and I know I haven't acted like it but I've really missed you."

Karma side eyes Amy from her spot on the wall. "You have?"

Amy nods. "And, if this little stunt is any indication, even Reagan's picked up on it." Both girls smile and Amy thinks maybe a thaw might be in the forecast after all. "And I get it if you can't forgive me or you at least want to stay mad but right now, I'd really like to hug you and I'd really like to get some feeling back in my arms, so if you don't mind?"

Karma laughs and crawls onto the bed, quickly loosening the scarves. Amy's arms flop to her sides but she quickly finds the strength to wrap them around Karma and pull her close.

"I'm sorry, Karm. I really am."

Karma just nods, not trusting her own voice and burrows her head into the crook of Amy's neck.

"I promise," Amy says. "I'll never disappear again. And someday, when we're in college and way too drunk, we'll have that long talk about me and Liam and little Liam

(Karma snorts against Amy's neck and it's one of the best sounds Amy's ever heard)

and then, well, who knows? But we'll figure it out. Together."

Karma doesn't say it, but that sounds just about perfect. Except…

"We had help though," she says. "Reagan really… I can't believe she did this just to get us talking again."

"I'm having some trouble believing it too," Amy says, rubbing her wrist.

"Don't tell her," Karma says, "but this is the first time I've felt like, maybe, she might actually like me. A little. Sort of." She smiles and snuggles a little closer. Her world is once again spinning in, mostly, the right direction. "You're really gonna have to thank her."

Amy nods. "Oh, I plan to," she says. "I plan to."

* * *

It's been a week.

A week since Reagan tied Amy to her bed, locked her in the room with Karma, and left the building. A week in which she's been waiting for the other shoe to drop and it hasn't and so, now, she's almost forgotten about it.

That's her first mistake.

Her second is not catching the look Lauren gives her as the pass in the Raudenfeld-Cooper front door. "She's upstairs," Lauren says. "I'm headed out with some friends, our parents are gone for the weekend and pick a good safe word. Like 'bananas' or 'tacos'."

Reagan watches the little blonde go and shakes her head at the weirdness.

Kids these days.

Her third mistake is not wondering why Amy's door is shut when she's the only one home and she knows Reagan is coming. The older girl doesn't even think of it as she walks in, her brain barely having time to process that the room seems empty - no Amy - but wait…

Aren't those?

No.

Couldn't be.

Those totally couldn't be her silk scarves tied to the bedposts because that would mean…

The door shuts behind her and Reagan turns to find herself face to

(very pissed of and yet also very fucking aroused)

face with her girlfriend, the puzzle pieces all falling into place.

"Shrimps…"

Reagan means it to sound like a warning but she's totally forgotten the dynamic here, one Amy is all too happy to remind her of as she pushes her Reagan back, steering her onto the bed and straddling her.

The fabric of Amy's skirt - a different and shorter one - rides up her legs as climbs astride Reagan, staring down at her with a look that makes Reagan feel like she's about to get devoured.

And not necessarily in the good way.

"Do you trust me?" Amy asks. Reagan nods because she does.

But also, when you've got a very aggressive and very turned on Amy Raudenfeld on top of you?

You agree to anything.

Anything.

"Good answer," Amt says. She guides Reagan's arms up over her head and leans down, letting her hair brush over Reagan's face as she whispers. "But just so you know?" she asks. "Karma's not coming through that door and the only one who's going to be begging - for forgiveness or otherwise - is you."

Reagan swallows hard and winces as Amy cinches the first scarf around her wrist. And maybe it's a little tighter than need be but, well, she's not complaining, not even as Amy follows it quickly with the second.

Amy slides off the bed and Reagan gets her first good look at her. The skirt, she knows, has to be Lauren's because it's at least three sizes too small. The shirt… wait… fuck… that's her shirt. Her black halter she wears on 'special' nights at the club

(special meaning LGBTQIA night meaning lots of lesbians meaning lots of tips for sexy showing a bit of skin DJ nights)

and Reagan quickly decides that if it looks that much better on Amy (and dear God those abs), she's never, ever asking for it back.

"That's quite the look, Shrimps," she says. "How long you planning on -"

"Quiet," Amy says. "No talking. You," she says, poking one finger into Reagan's chest. "Talked enough." That one finger slowly slides down the valley between Reagan's breasts, the fabric of her tee shirt doing little to keep her from feeling every bit of Amy's touch. "I know you talked to Shane," Amy says.

"Amy -"

Reagan stops speaking - and almost stops thinking - when that finger, and the thumb next to it, suddenly clamp themselves around her nipple through her shirt

(and of all days to skip the bra)

and it's all she can do to suppress a moan as Amy pinches, just a little. "I said, no talking."

Just as quickly as they arrived, that finger and thumb are gone but only so Amy can slide a pair of pillows beneath Reagan's head.

"Want to to make sure you've got a good view," Amy says she slides down to the end of the bed. "You talked to Shane," she says. "And he talked to me. And I know it was his idea, inadvertent as it was, to tie me up and leave me for Karma."

Reagan doesn't argue, both because Amy said no talking

(though she wouldn't really mind another reminder of that)

and because she's transfixed by the sight of Amy, at the end of the bed, slowly tugging up one side of the shirt, then the other. Every tug, a little more flesh comes into view. Bit by bit, so fucking slow and Reagan swears she must have it on a pulley or something, the way she just keeps working it up.

Inch by perfect fucking inch.

Amy tugs the shirt up one last time, stopping so that just the bottoms of her breasts - as bra free as Reagan's - are visible. She lets her fingers dance slowly across them, lightly caressing the skin and Reagan's pretty sure - rule or no rule - she's lost the power of speech anyway.

"Karma says I should thank you," Amy says. She leaves the shirt in place, her hands moving to the hem of her skirt and Reagan's eyes follow.

She can't tell if Amy's wearing underwear and part of her - the part that loves slowly peeling them down Amy's legs - hopes she is.

The rest of her is offering up every silent prayer she can think of that Amy's skipped the thong along with the bra.

"What do you think, Reagan? Should I thank you?" Amy turns, letting Reagan see the bare skin of her back, and slowly guiding the skirt higher and higher. "Or should I punish you?"

The skirt rides high enough for Reagan to see Amy's ass and when she bends forward, just a little

(and where the fuck did Amy learn this?)

Reagan can see her silent prayers? All answered.

And she can also see that she's definitely not the only one enjoying this.

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath and Amy's head is turned just enough that Reagan can see the flicker of a smile - a very self satisfied smile - before the steely nonchalance reappears.

"You do know what you did wrong, don't you Reagan?" Amy asks as she straightens back up. She undoes the skirt with one hand, letting it fall to the floor, pooling around her feet. "You do know why I'm going to punish you?"

"I set you up," Reagan says.

Amy steps out of the skirt, one long-legged step at a time. "It wasn't setting me up that was the problem," she says. She turns, positioning herself right between Reagan's legs. "It wasn't that you tried to fix things with Karma." Amy bends down, putting one hand on each of Reagan's legs. "Do you know what you did that was so bad, Reagan?"

Reagan shakes her head. Her eyes are glued to the spots on her jean clad legs where Amy's hand are. The hands that are slowly creeping upward as Amy climbs onto the bed.

Amy slowly presses Reagan's legs apart, climbing onto the bed between them, crawling upwards. "You didn't keep your promise," she says. She reaches a spot between Reagan's thighs and slowly

(everything is slowly and deliberately and it's like Amy's choreographed every fucking move and Reagan's loving it. All of it.)

swings one leg over Reagan's, straddling her girlfriend's thigh and settling herself down onto it.

And all Reagan can think is she should have worn a skirt of her own because Amy's already soaking her fucking jeans and oh, what she wouldn't give right now to have less fabric in the fucking way.

Amy leans down, the motion earning a soft moan from them both, and runs her hands under the fabric of Reagan's tee, pushing it up, bit by bit, the cool air of the room mixing with the feel of Amy's warm breath as she presses soft kisses all across Reagan's stomach.

Amy looks up at her then. "You promised, Reagan," she says. She kisses Reagan again, her tongue flicking out, lapping lightly at the older girl's skin. "You promised to reward me."

She pushes Reagan's shirt up and out of her way, exposing Reagan's breasts, watching her already hard nipples tighten that much more in the cool air.

Reagan wants - more than anything - for Amy to touch them, to kiss them, to flick her tongue against her nipples and then nip at them in that way she always does, quick and hard and then soothing with her lips, sucking gently until Reagan moans and she starts it all over again.

That's what Reagan wants.

And Amy knows it.

She slips off her girlfriend's thigh, pressing herself down onto Reagan, sliding her body between the other girl's legs, leaning down so that when Reagan looks at her, she sees Amy's face, framed between her breasts.

"I know what you want, Rea," she says. She tips her head over one breast, blowing gently on Reagan's nipple and smiling as her girlfriend's back arches. "I know what you want me to do," she says. "I know you want me to start here and end here." Amy slips one hand between Reagan's legs and presses hard against her.

She can't help smirking just a little at how damp - how fucking soaked - Reagan is.

"I know what you want," Amy repeats. "You want me. You want my tongue between your legs. You want my fingers inside you and my lips wrapped around your clit, don't you baby?"

Amy unbuttons Reagan's jeans, slowly drags the zipper down. She hooks her hands into the tops of the jeans and tugs them down, working them slowly down Reagan's legs. Reagan moans as she feels Amy's breasts - the halter long since shoved out of the way - brushing against her.

Amy reaches the end of the bed and stands as she pulls the jeans free, tossing them somewhere in the room, the halter joining them soon after. She smiles as Reagan pulls on the scarves, temptation getting the best of her.

"You promised to reward me and you didn't," Amy says. She crawls back up the bed, straddling Reagan's chest. The pillows prop her up and Reagan has the perfect view as Amy scoots her hips closer. "You didn't reward me," she says, "so I guess I'll have to take care of it myself."

Amy shifts just a little closer, onto her knees and thrusting her hips forward, giving Reagan a close up view as she - slowly, of course - rubs circles on her clit with two fingers.

"I thought this might be my reward," Amy says, her voice breathy as she tries not to give into the pleasure just yet. "I thought maybe you'd do this for me. Maybe your fingers?" She shuffles forward on her knees, so close Reagan can practically fucking taste her. "Maybe your tongue?"

Reagan pulls against the scarves, but Amy tied them well.

"Would you have done that for me, Reagan?" she asks. "Would you have run your tongue all over my clit and made me.. fuck… moan?"

"Ye -"

Reagan starts to answer but Amy hushes her with two fingers to her lips.

Those two fingers.

"No talking, remember?"

Reagan nods and Amy takes her fingers back, but not without first slowly dragging them across her girlfriend's bottom lip, smiling when Reagan's tongue darts out for a taste.

Amy shifts again, turning and swinging around. Her legs slide out as she straddles Reagan's head, her ass and her swollen and wet folds just out of Reagan's reach.

"I thought maybe you'd do this too," Amy says as she slips those same two fingers gently along the length of her, teasing her own entrance - Reagan moans again at that - and her hips buck slightly.

"It's hard for you, isn't?" Reagan asks, ignoring the no talking rule. "So hard to not just slide back and let me feast."

Amy looks back over her shoulder, glaring at Reagan who quickly wonders if maybe she should have just kept her mouth shut.

"It is," Amy admits. "Especially since I was hoping you'd do this." Reagan can only watch as those two fingers disappear inside Amy. "I love it when you fuck me," Amy says. "I love feeling you inside me."

Amy looks back again but Reagan can't tear her eyes away from those fingers, slowly working in and out.

She's tempted to talk again, just to see if Amy will give her another taste.

"Those should be yours, Reagan. Your fingers inside me." Amy drops her shoulders, leaning forward onto Reagan for support - her head resting on the older girl's thigh - so she can reach back with her other hand and find her clit. "That should be your tongue Reagan. That should be you licking my clit while you fuck me."

Reagan can only watch as Amy pulls her fingers out and then slams them back in, curling them the way Reagan always does.

"It should be you, baby," Amy says. "If you'd just kept your promise."

Amy's knees buckle as she feels it building. She could finish it now, just take herself over the edge and be done.

But where's the fun in that?

She sits back up, turning around to face Reagan one more time. "This should have been you," she says as she slides those fingers back inside. "Do you want it to be you, baby? Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Reagan says, but her mouth is dry and the words come out scratchy and hoarse. "Yes," she says again, clearer.

"Really?" Amy asks, her fingers moving frantically. She knows she's not going to be able to hold out much longer.

"Yes, baby," Reagan says. "Please, Shrimps. Please."

"Please what?" Amy asks. "What do you want, Reagan? Tell me."

"I want you," Reagan says, her arms pulling hard against the scarves. "I want to reward you, like I promised. You did such a good job, baby. You fixed things. And now I want to give you your reward. Please, baby, let me make you -"

Anything else Reagan might have said is lost as Amy bucks forward, her hands tangling in Reagan's hair as she pulls her girlfriend hard against her, letting out an explosive cry as Reagan reacts, her tongue lashing against Amy's clit as the blonde grinds down against her.

Amy slides up, urging Reagan to fuck her, wanting nothing more than to feel Reagan inside her and Reagan complies, her tongue spearing out and then in, swirling inside Amy - just the way she likes - around and around and then curling back as Reagan moans into her.

It takes less than minute before Reagan - and probably most of the neighborhood - hears Amy moaning out her girlfriend's name as she cums.

Neither of them moves for a moment. Amy's too spent and Reagan, well, she could spend forever right there and never complain a bit.

Finally, Amy falls back onto the bed. Her legs are shaking and she's not sure she's ever going to move again - or be able to. Reagan leans back onto the pillows. She's gonna have a sore neck later and Amy's nails might have left some scratches - or at least pulled out some hair - but right now all she can feel is Amy, on her tongue and her lips.

In the fucking ache between her own legs.

Amy manages to prop herself up on her elbows and look at her girlfriend. She smiles at Reagan and then…

slides off the bed and starts puttering around the room, finding a pair of jeans to pull on and her doughnut shirt, and grabbing her cell and her laptop off the desk.

"Shrimps?"

"Yeah, baby?" Amy asks. She comes back over and kneels next to the bed, opening up the laptop and starting Netflix.

"Um… well… uh…"

Reagan is at a loss for words. She's lost, period.

"Amy?"

Amy clicks play on the laptop and a movie starts running. She turns the screen toward Reagan and adjusts the volume. "Can you see OK? Hear alright?"

Reagan nods but the look on her face is much less 'yes' and much more 'what the fuck?'

"Shrimps? What's…"

"This," Amy says, pointing at the screen, "is that documentary on child prostitution in Bangladesh that I've been begging you to watch with me." She stands up. "And this," she says, waving a hand up and down in front of herself, "is me going to lunch with Karma."

"But… wait… what?"

Amy leans down and kisses Reagan on the forehead. "Don't worry, baby," she says. "The movie's like three and a half hours long. I should be back before it's over." She scratches her head. "Though, now that I think about it, Karma did mention going shopping too…"

Reagan looks at Amy. At the laptop. Back at Amy.

Amy shrugs. "I guess I'll be back when… I get back."

She heads for the door, grabbing her bag on the way. She steps out into the hall and pauses, leaning back into the room, her head poking out around the door.

"Oh, and baby?" Amy says. "When I get back, I'm gonna need you to tell me all about the movie. And if you do?" she smirks and Reagan knows it's coming even before Amy says it.

"I promise I'll reward you. Very, very well."


	4. Red Vines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotten a bunch of PMs asking for a new Reamy story since the cancellation.  Don't think I have a new story in me, but thought maybe a little plot with a side of smut (or a lot of smut with a side of plot) might work too.   My editor couldn't stop blushing after reading so either it's good smut or she just didn't want to tell me I suck at being dirty :)  You know the drill.  Read and review and enjoy the smutty smut smut. 

It's been a week.

Correction: It's been a _fucking_ week. A fucking week that has been filled - from top to bottom and over to the right side and then back to the left and bursting out the seams and overflowing every which way - with everything _but_ fucking. And that's not the _good_ kind of 'everything but', the kind where there's lots of kisses and some PG-13 cuddling and a little (or more than a little) bit of through the clothes grinding and, at the very _least_ , a few 'oh, sorry, I was asleep and didn't know my hand ended up _there_ ' moments.

No. It's the everything but _everything_ kind, the kind you usually only get in, you know, _extreme_ circumstances.

Like when your girlfriend has to spend a week away with her family (and even then, there's always Skype, and Reagan _remembers_ Skype, she remembers it _fondly_.) Or like when you're working doubles for the catering company, pulling two jobs a day and _then_ rocking three DJ gigs in the same week and _then_ helping your dumbass brother move out of his (bigger) dumbass (ex) girlfriend's apartment, the one on the dumbass (sensing a _pattern_?) fifth floor in a building with no working elevator and _then -_ when all _that_ is done - even though your girlfriend spent most of your catering shifts sending you pictures of her in the tiniest outfits she owns (some of which you're _sure_ were actually Lauren's) and most of your DJ gigs sending you pictures of her _out_ of the tiniest outfits she owns (including several you're _sure_ are from Lauren's _room_ ) and even though the spirit is willing (oh _so so so_ willing), the flesh is weak weak _weak_ and falls asleep the second it hits the bed.

Dumbass flesh. Dumbass flesh and dumbass week and yes, Reagan knows that it's _only_ a week (which is real easy to say when _you're_ not the one dating Amy Raudenfeld) and that there is more - like way way _way_ more - to their relationship than just sex (like, you know, caring and a future and feelings but _fuck all_ , as much as she loves all that, she needs some _feeling_ too, if you know what she means.)

You do. You _know_ you do.

Reagan knows that a week without sex is not the end of the world and she knows it's not even the end of _them_ and she knows - surprisingly well - that they've got a long future ahead of them and that future is going to have plenty of dry spells and it's going to have plenty of times when one, or both of them, just aren't in the mood (even if she can't ever imagine being with Amy and _not_ being in the mood) and she's fine with that.

But _this_? This isn't a dry spell and this isn't 'not in the mood' and this isn't one of them claiming a headache or even life forcing them to spend time apart. This is something else entirely.

This is _Karma_.

Karma the person, not karma the concept though, Reagan suspects, it might actually be _both_ , it might be her metaphysical chickens coming home to roost as they say. Cause, see, she knows this is really all her own fault, she's the one who started it. She was the one who wanted (and God only knows _why_ ) Karma and Amy to fix their shit and she's the one who went out of her way to make it happen.

She tied her girlfriend up and then left her alone with another woman and not in the 'I'm gonna go sit in the corner and watch' kinda way, but in the 'I trust you two alone together and I want you to be friends again and I need _my_ Amy back which is, unfortunately, kinda _her_ Amy too' kinda way. Yeah, Reagan's well fucking aware of her role in all this, but Amy already _punished_ her for it though, in truth, Reagan knows punishment is probably supposed to involve a few less orgasms, but _still_ …

Seven days and seven nights of… _Karmy_ (and yes, she shudders just as much as you think she would every time she even thinks… _that_ )... that's _not_ punishment. _That's_ cruel and unusual, that's just _mean_ , that's…

It's unconstitutional, _that's_ what it is.

Reagan's eyes glass over as she (sort of) watches the television and (more sort of) listens to Karma babbling from the kitchen and she thinks, maybe, she ought to take this to court, to the _Supreme_ Court, cause they already went for gay marriage so this ought to be a slam dunk and she wouldn't even need precedents or case law or anything.

Just let them - those nine (well, _eight_ now) men and women - spend an hour in the 'Karmy' zone and they'd rule in her favor faster than she's going to make Amy cum the next time she gets her alone for five minutes.

_If_ there is a next time.

"You cannot be _serious_."

Reagan looks up from the TV she's not actually watching. She's completely lost the plot, not that she ever cared to have it, she's not even sure what movie she's not watching. All she knows is it's another in the _incredibly_ long line of 'how in the _fuck_ did this ever even get _made_ , oh… wait… it's because it has _Gosling_ , which is, you know, _great_ , unless you are, you know, a _lesbian_ ' rom-com-bombs that Karma has foisted on them all week.

Like _all_ week. Like seven nights at like two movies a night and it's officially reached a point where Reagan can't tell a Gosling from an Efron from a Duhamel. Seven days and seven nights. It's like some Karmy-fied version of Hanukkah, only missing a day (thank _God_ ) and none of them are, you know, _Jewish_.

Though, at this point, Reagan would convert, on the fucking _spot_ , to damn near any religion that would allow her to worship at the Altar of Amy for even thirty (very very _very_ naked) seconds.

"You _cannot_ be _serious_ ," Karma repeats. Reagan's learned enough 'Karmaese' in the last week to read into the _emphasis_ , to translate _cannot_ and _serious_ to 'no one said anything the first time I said it and you two are alone in there - without _me_ \- and dammit, I can't allow _that_.'

Maybe the _specifics_ are a little off, but the _feeling_ , the _spirit_ , is _exactly_ right.

Reagan glances over her shoulder and over the back of her couch and she sees Karma standing there, in her tiny kitchen, bent over and staring into her fridge and - from _that_ angle and in _those_ jeans - Karma's ass….

_Fuck_. Just… _fuck_.

She's staring at Karma's ass. _Karma's_. _Ass_. If Reagan wasn't sure before that it was time for Amy's bestie to go, she's _beyond_ sure now. It's so _past_ time for her to go, no matter how good her ass looks (and it does, it _really_ does) (and add having to think about _that_ to the list of things Reagan's going to make Amy pay for once they're alone.)

Slowly. She's going to make her pay slowly and repeatedly and as loudly as possible.

"What's wrong?" Amy asks and she's asking _Karma_ but oh, Reagan could answer _that_ , she could answer the _fuck_ out of that.

What's wrong? Reagan's got a _list_.

Amy's sitting next to Reagan on the couch - the same spot she's been in all evening, at least since this latest who give a fuck cinematic masterpiece started. Except that 'next to', really, isn't all that apt a description. Amy's been spread out for most of the evening, her legs in Karma's lap at one end of the couch, her head in Reagan's lap at the other. But now, with Karma in the kitchen, they're basically alone - or as close as they've come in the last seven days - and Reagan's not above taking advantage of the situation, so she lets one hand slowly creep under the collar of Amy's tee shirt and prays Karma stays in the kitchen just a little longer.

(Though, honestly, even if she didn't…)

"You girlfriend has no real butter," Karma says, hunched over and rooting through the fridge, unaware that Reagan's _eyes_ are still locked on her ass (it's been _seven days_ ) or that Reagan's _hand_ is slipping even further under Amy's shirt.

Or that Amy's doing nothing to stop it. And, in this case, 'nothing' totally means leaning back a little further and scooting just a little closer and moving the parts Reagan's going for a little more… in range.

"How," Karma mutters, "can we have popcorn with no butter?"

Reagan rolls her eyes (finally tearing them away from that ass to do it.) "There's margaine in there," she says, even though she's really got no fucking idea if there is or not, but _that_ should keep Karma occupied - at least for a minute - which is good, _very_ good, especially for the fingers that just slipped under the top edge of Amy's bra.

"Margarine?" Karma snorts. " _Really_?"

"I don't _know_ ," Reagan mutters. She has to consciously commit to not letting her voice shudder through the words as her hand works its way fully under Amy's bra (with a bit of help from Amy, with 'a bit' being a full on pulling down of saud bra until she's basically not wearing it.) "I think there's some… um… vegan butter… substitute shit that… my… um…" She loses her train of thought for a moment, too engrossed in the feel of Amy, cupped in her hand. "My cousin," she finally stammers out. "My cousin left it last time she was here."

Reagan runs her thumb across Amy's flesh, circling her nipple with just the lightest of touches and watches as her girlfriend's eyes squeeze shut and a definite flush reddens her cheeks.

So, at least a week hasn't made her lose her touch.

"Vegan butter tastes like ass," Karma says. "And no, before you ask, I don't _really_ know what ass tastes like but if I did, I imagine it would be pretty close to vegan butter."

Reagan has to admit, she probably has a point.

"Well, in that case," Reagan says, running that same thumb back over that same nipple, feeling it harden beneath her touch. "I guess I've got no butter. Maybe," she says, "you should run out and get some?"

And not _just_ so Reagan can get some.

Amy clutches at Reagan's thigh as her back arches and her hair spills out over Reagan's lap and the older girl watches as Amy bites down on her lip to stifle a moan.

OK. Yeah. Scratch that. _Totally_ just so Reagan can get some.

She pinches Amy's nipple between her thumb and finger, forcing the blonde to roll to her side, burying her face (and another moan) in Reagan's shirt. "We could pause the movie for you," she says to Karma, tangling her free hand in Amy's hair. "Then we could just pick up right where we left off when you get back."

"I _could_ ," Karma says, shuffling things around on the top shelf of the fridge (and Reagan's _so_ glad she just went grocery shopping and that fridge is _full_ ) (except, apparently, for butter.) "But you were my ride, remember? So unless you want me taking your truck…"

Amy rolls back over, her eyes popping open as Reagan's hand freezes in place.

Not the truck. _Anything_ but the truck.

"Guess we'll just have to have bare popcorn then," Reagan says. She starts to move her hand again, tracing one finger lightly along the bottom of Amy's breast until Amy covers her hand with her own and she stares up at Reagan, with those eyes and that smile and Reagan knows _those_ eyes and she's all too fucking familiar with _that_ smile.

And you _have_ to be _kidding_ …

Reagan sighs and pulls her hand free from Amy's shirt. She's whipped and she knows it, she's _known_ it since 'there are… no… boyfriends' even if she didn't even know _Amy_ then and there's just no point in fighting it.

"Or," she says, standing up and as Amy props herself up, resting her weight on her elbows. "I could just run down to the store on the corner and get some."

Karma could run to the corner store except Reagan's neighborhood is a little… scary… and, despite Reagan's thoughts on the matter, Karma's just… not.

The redhead hops over the back of the couch - her long, brave butter hunt finally at an end - landing in Reagan's just vacated spot and Amy flops back down, her head landing in her best friend's lap.

"Hey," Amy says, smiling up at her (but not with _that_ smile.)

"Hey yourself," Karma says, smiling right back.

"Oh, _fuck me_ ," Reagan mutters and, for the first time in a week, it's not an actual request or prayer to the Gods. "Anything else I should get while I'm there?" she asks as she snatches up her keys from the coffee table. "Rat poison? A blindfold? Ear plugs?"

Those last two are _totally_ meant for Karma.

"Licorice," Karma says, totally missing the joke - intentionally or not, Reagan's not sure - as she keeps right on grinning down at Amy. "Red vines," she says. "Those are Amy's favorite."

Amy breaks the sickly sweet eye contact and glances over at Reagan, her eyes pleading.

Don't tell her, they say. Don't let on that you know that I fucking _hate_ red vines, like with an I hate Liam Booker level passion, they plead. Don't tell her that I've spent a lifetime claiming to love them because they're _her_ favorite, they _beg_.

Reagan just stares for a moment. In a regular moment, in a _them_ moment, she could be memorizing the curves of Amy's face, marveling at the way her hair frames her eyes and makes her look all the more like the seductively sweet goddess she is. Reagan could be staring at her with all the love and adoration she feels in her heart every time she even hears Amy's voice.

This ain't a _regular_ moment and oh, look, Karma's brushing out Amy's hair and yup, this ain't a _them_ moment either. Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head and she knows Amy is as fluent in Reagan as Regan is in Karma so she knows Amy totally picks up on the 'you so owe me' and 'I'm gonna get you for this later' and 'yes, I still love you even though you're making me get her _butter_ ' dancing through that look.

Ah, the things we do for love and it _must_ be love cause Lord knows it ain't the sex.

Not lately, at least.

Reagan wonders, not for the first time, how many of the things Karma thinks she knows she actually doesn't. How many of the things that make Amy, Amy, at least to Karma, are utter bullshit, are just… _red vines_.

Probably a few, Reagan thinks. Probably just as many as there are things about Karma that are just as much bullshit. That's their friendship and that seems to work for them, but Reagan's glad it isn't theirs, hers and Amy's. She's glad that the things she knows are all _real._

And Reagan knows a lot.

Like she knows Amy hates Red Vines. And she knows that Amy likes a cup of coffee in the morning but it has to be warm, not _hot_ , and it's a very delicate balance, that ratio between the cream and the sugar and it has to be _real_ sugar, not some pretty colored packet shit. Reagan knows Amy could live off doughnuts alone (but really, who _doesn't_ know that?) and that she likes them all but she likes the ones with sprinkles the best. She knows that Amy chews on her pencil eraser when she's trying to do math, but she chews on her _fingernails_ when she doesn't _understand_ it _._

Reagan knows exactly where to kiss Amy to make her knees buckle and she could draw you a perfect picture of what Amy looks like, fresh out of the shower, every spot where the water drips and rolls off her body. She could describe the look on Amy's face when she finally lets go, when all her carefully constructed walls and defenses and 'I don't really like _people_ and I really _do_ like living in my bubble' attitude breaks and she's the most free. And she knows how Amy tastes, whether it's on her fingers or on her tongue or even that one time on the strap…

_No._ Just… _no_.

Reagan closes her eyes and does everything she can to will the images away. She tries thinking of baseball and basketball and _boy's_ balls, anything to drive that _particular_ 'know' right out of her mind, before she finds herself tumbling headlong down the hill, rolling past 'horny' and 'pent up' and 'frustrated' right on into 'in the mood' and 'in the mood _now_ ' and she tackles Amy to the floor and does things to her that Karma should never see.

"Butter and red vines," Karma says, the very _sound_ of her voice shuffling Reagan back toward reality. "Oh and maybe some soda. Something with lots of caffeine? We've still got two more movies tonight."

Reagan's eyes open and Karma is looking at her with a big smile and cheery cheeks and her hand resting on top of Amy's and yup… mood officially _killed._

Slayed. Murdered. Fucking _assassinated_.

"Got it," Reagan says. "Butter and caffeine and," she glares at Amy who refuses to meet her eyes, " _Red Vines_." She turns back to Karma. "Anything else?"

Karma thinks a moment before shaking her head. "Nah," she says. "I think that should just about cover it." Her face is all innocence and joy and it's so clear that she's got less than no clue about what she's doing and Reagan doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. "You want us to pause the movie?"

Reagan glances at the screen where Gosfronmel has taken his shirt off ( _again_ ) and she shoots Amy a look.

_Save me. Save me before I'm forced to kill her and we have to go on the run to Honduras or Guatemala or Brazil or the North Fucking Pole._

"Reagan's seen this one before," Amy says. "I'm sure she's fine if we just keep watching."

"Cool," Karma says, utterly satisfied (at least _someone_ is) and she turns back to the screen as Reagan heads for the door, muttering about 'Red _fucking_ Vines' under her breath.

She makes it all the way into the hall before she feels a hand on her arm. "What?" she asks as she turns. "Did you forget M&Ms or maybe you want some chocolate milk or… _oooh_ … I know, how about graham crackers and marshmallows and we can make smo -"

Her words are cut off - _swallowed_ \- in the best way possible, by Amy's lips on hers and by Amy's hands on her hips, pushing her across the tiny hall until Reagan's back is pressed up against the far wall and she lets out a tiny whimper as Amy breaks the kiss and _God_ , when did she turn into _that_ girl?

Oh. Right. There are… no… boyfriends…

Amy leans her forehead against Reagan's, one hand sliding upward and just under the hem of her shirt, fingers dancing lightly along Reagan's side. "Thank you," she whispers softly, her breath warm against her girlfriend's lips.

Reagan clamps her eyes shut. She can't look at Amy, not while she's all touchy and breathy and kissy and so… _close_. If she looks, she won't have a choice, it will be totally beyond her control and she'll _have_ to spin them around and press Amy against the wall and do things to her that one just does not _do_.

Not in the _hall_.

"Thank you?" Reagan asks, amping the snark in the faint (and getting fainter by the _second_ as Amy keeps _touching_ ) hope that she won't crack. "For what? Butter? Red Vines?"

Amy kisses her again, a smile spreading across her lips as she does. "No, not for the butter _or_ the licorice" she says, sliding her arms around Reagan's waist, one hand slipping into the back pocket of the older girl's jeans, the other still trailing along under her shirt, Amy's fingers teasing the small of Reagan's back. "Thank you for putting up with her."

Reagan risks it and pops one eye open, staring Amy down. " _Her_?" she asks. " _Just_ her?"

Amy laughs and kisses her again, slower this time, her tongue slipping into Reagan's mouth, but then dancing away when Reagan's comes out to duel. "OK," Amy murmurs against her girlfriend's lips. "Thank you for putting up with her and with me and with… _us_."

She pulls back, just a little, her hands still holding Reagan close, but Amy wants Reagan to see it - the look in her eyes when she says 'us' - just to make sure.

'Us' is not _us_.

Add that to the list of things Reagan knows.

"It's OK," Reagan says, hooking her thumbs in the belt loops of Amy's jeans and tugging her closer again. "It's fine, it's nothing, it's no big…" She trails off as she sees the look on Amy's face, the 'who are _you_ kidding?' fluttering in her eyes. "OK," she says, "even I can't sell _that_."

Amy laughs and Reagan has to wonder how a sound - a fucking _sound_ \- can warm her heart and her… you _know_ … at the same time.

"It _is_ a big deal," Amy says, leaning close again, resting her head on Reagan's shoulder, her breath tickling the sensitive skin of her girlfriend's neck. "I know it's hard," she says as she presses a soft kiss along that skin. "And I know Karma drives you nuts." Another kiss, a little longer, Amy's lips catching Reagan's flesh and sucking so very lightly. "And I know we seem a little… weird… and kinda codependent." Amy's teeth nip at that same spot and her tongue slips out to soothe, as the hand in Reagan's pocket squeezes gently.

"You think?" Reagan stammers out. She's incredibly proud she didn't moan, though when Amy's other hand slips down, sliding just under the waistband of her jeans, Reagan's pretty sure that whole not moaning thing isn't going to last.

And neither is she.

"I know how we are," Amy says and fuck _says,_ it's a _whisper_ and Reagan only hears it because Amy's moved, tilting her head so she's breathing her words right into her girlfriend's ear. "And I know how annoying that can be."

It's somewhat less annoying, Reagan has to admit, when those fingers - still dipping just below her waist - slowly slide around her body, never once breaking contact until they reach her front and then only long enough to pop the button on her jeans before sliding right back in.

"Amy…"

She means it as a warning, as in 'we're in the hall and my door is still open and Karma's right inside and Mrs. Basham is probably home and I'm like four inches from _her_ door and you should probably _stop_ now.'

If it comes across as more of a plea, as more of a ' _don't_ stop now', well…

It's been _seven days_.

"It's just the first time Karma and I have been sort of… normal… since all this started," Amy says, paying absolutely no attention to Reagan's warning / plea but paying a _lot_ of attention to her zipper, the one she's slowly working down. "No secrets," Amy says, tugging the zipper halfway. "No lies," she whispers, finishing the job (though Reagan suspects she's anything _but_ finished.) "It's just her and me again and that's nice and I've really needed that."

Amy's hand creeps back up to the top of Reagan's jeans, pressing flat against her girlfriend's stomach. She turns slightly, moving a bit to Reagan's side and, even as Reagan is realizing why - it's all about the angles - Amy's hand slides straight down, skimming across the surface of her girlfriend's underwear and slipping between her legs.

"And speaking of things I've really needed…" Amy breathes, pressing her fingers against Reagan's mound through her panties, just enough pressure to make the older girl hiss out a low 'fuck' through gritted teeth.

Reagan manages to keep her balance - though Amy might be holding her up, she can't really be sure cause she can't really _think_ \- and she grabs, blindly, for Amy's hand, capturing her wrist, the one halfway down her pants.

"Shrimps…" she says (and fuck it, it _is_ a _moan_ and she doesn't _care_.) "We… can't…" Reagan loses the power of speech for a moment as Amy presses just a little harder, one finger brushing lightly over her clit and _fuck all_ they can't.

" _We're_ not," Amy says. She doesn't go any further, doesn't try to slip her wrist from Reagan's grasp. " _You_ are."

She dips her head again and runs her tongue along Reagan's skin, along that spot right behind her ear.

Reagan knows Amy. But Amy knows _her_ too.

"If you want me to stop," Amy says as she lets that one finger twitch, just a little. "I will. Or…"

Oh fuck. There's an or.

"Or?" Reagan asks, like she needs the options explained so she can make the most informed choice.

Like there's any fucking chance she's _not_ picking 'or'.

Amy smiles against her skin and Reagan knows she's in for it now. "Or," Amy says, "that hand you're holding on to? You can move it." She slips her other hand out of Reagan's pocket and then right back down again, into her jeans and under the panties, taking a firm grasp of her girlfriend's ass.

"Move?" Reagan gasps. She's got her eyes open now, locked on her apartment door, keeping watch for Karma and - she swears - if _she_ comes out _now_ …

"Yes," Amy whispers. She flexes her hand gently, earning another low moan from Reagan in the process. "Move it," she says. "Where you want it. Where you _need_ it. Guide me, Reagan, make _me_ make _you_ cum."

Well… when she puts it that way…

It takes all of about ten seconds for Reagan to run it all through her mind and most of those seconds are taken up completely with thoughts of how hot it is to hear Amy - _Amy_ \- say that sort of thing. In the hall, no less. In the hall with her hands down Reagan's pants and her best friend like forty feet away and Mrs. Basham probably listening behind her door.

And that _shouldn't_ make it even hotter. It _shouldn't_ …

LIke there was ever even a thought that she _wouldn't_ , Reagan holds tight to Amy's wrist and does exactly what her girlfriend asked for. She steers her, guiding Amy's hand down further between her legs until the blonde gets the hint and cups Reagan in her hand.

"Is that what you want?" she whispers and Reagan nods. "Is that _all_ you want?"

Reagan groans and leans her head back against the wall. "No," she whispers. "That's not _all."_

Amy's hand pushes against Reagan's ass, shoving the older girl gently forward, pressing her hard against that cupping hand. "Then tell me," she says. "Tell me what you want."

Reagan turns, bringing her other hand up onto the back of Amy's neck and pulls her to her, crashing their lips together as she slowly uses her grip on Amy's wrist to move her hand up and then down and then up again and the back down, further than before, rubbing the fabric of her underwear against her, soaking the cotton faster than she thought possible.

"What I want," Reagan says, breaking the kiss, "is for you to fuck…"

She trails off into a low throaty moan as Amy takes the initiative, pulling Reagan's panties aside and slipping one finger just inside her. It's just a tease, just a dip in the pool as it were, but it's enough to make Reagan lose her breath.

"Sorry," Amy says. "I got a little impatient waiting for you to tell me." She slips her finger back out, running it gently across the underwear, guiding fabric and finger through Reagan's folds as the older girl bucks her hips, trying to urge her back.

" _Fuck_ , Amy," she says. "What's gotten into you?"

"You," Amy says. "Or you _will_ , later, when I call Liam or Shane or a fucking Uber and have them take Karma home." She squeezes Reagan's ass again. "You'll get into me. Just like this," she says, letting that one finger slide back inside. Reagan's so wet, Amy goes for two. "And like _this_ ," she says as the second finger dips in. "And like _this_ …" A third finger sends Reagan arching against the wall and Amy just holds them there, not moving at all.

Reagan grips Amy's wrist, steering and pushing and trying to get her to move, but Amy holds her ground, wanting to savor the moment.

"You know," Amy says, "it hasn't just been _you_. It's been seven days for me too." She slips her fingers just a little deeper, smiling as Reagan's eyes slam shut and her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip. "Seven days without _this_ ," Amy whispers. "Without the feel of you." She shifts again, going just a little deeper. "Seven days without feeling you soaking my fingers, without getting to hear you moan as I fuck you."

Reagan's hips buck again as Amy curls her fingers, catching her in just the right spot and she moans again, not caring who hears or sees or knows. She doesn't care about anything except hoping - _praying_ \- for Amy to never stop fucking her.

"Seven long days," Amy says. She slowly pulls her fingers away and Reagan allows her to steer as she slips her hand up and out of Reagan's jeans, up and across her stomach and over her chest and oh… oh _fuck_.. "Seven days," Amy whispers, "without the taste of you."

Amy tips her neck, bringing her fingers to her lips and slowly - so fucking _slowly_ \- she swipes her tongue across each one, lapping up the taste before gently sliding each, one at a time, between her lips and sucking them clean.

She watches Reagan watch her, every movement slow and deliberate and Amy makes a little show, making a point of letting each finger _pop_ from her mouth even if she doesn't want to, even if she wants to keep right on sucking them all clean until she's gotten every last drop.

Amy lowers her hand again, sliding it back between Reagan's legs, underneath her panties this time, lingering - for just a moment - on her girlfriend's clit.

"We don't have much time," Amy says. "You need to get to the store and Karma's going to be wondering where I am." There's a look that washes over Reagan's face, one her girlfriend recognizes and one that brings a delicious smirk to Amy's. "You like _that_ , don't you?" she asks, already knowing the answer. "You like knowing Karma's right over there, just beyond that open door."

Reagan tries to shake her head 'no', but Amy brushes her thumb over her clit and it's like the hottest truth serum ever and she caves in, nodding. Amy's fingers dance delicately across her clit and then down, teasing at her entrance and even though the other girl doesn't say a word, Amy can see it in her eyes.

"She's right in there," Amy says. "She can probably hear us… hear _you_." Amy slips a finger inside her and Reagan can't hold back the moan and yeah, Karma probably heard that. The people two floors _down_ probably heard that. "You're so fucking wet right now," Amy whispers, swirling her finger inside Reagan to prove her point. "Right now, right _here_ , right out in the hall where anyone could see."

Reagan can feel herself clenching around Amy's finger as her first - but not her last - orgasm rolls through her. Her fingers dig into Amy's wrist and she hears her girlfriend let out a moan of her own.

"Yes," Amy whispers. "That's what I want. I want you to cum," she says. "I want you to cum so fucking hard cum all over my fingers." She brushes her thumb across Reagan's clit and they both know _that's_ not going to be a problem. "I want you to soak my fucking hand," Amy says. She turns her hand, her thumb still working Reagan's clit as her fingers dip down below. "And then, when you're done, I want you to watch me," she says. "I want you to watch me as I suck every bit of you from my fingers, as I lick up every drop of your cum."

Reagan moans again as those three fingers find their way back inside.

"You're going to watch me," Amy says. She slowly speeds up her fingers, not teasing and dipping anymore. "You're going to watch me clean you off me," she says, sliding her fingers in and out, faster now. Reagan's hips buck against the motion, matching Amy's strokes as she fucks her. "Or..."

Oh _fuck._ There's _another_ or.

"Or?" Reagan gasps as Amy pumps in and she presses her hips down, forcing the blonde's fingers even deeper.

Her eyes grow wide as Amy steps back slightly, tossing one quick look over her shoulder towards the apartment door before bringing her other hand free and quickly - faster than Reagan's ever seen her move - undoing the button on her own jeans and yanking the zipper down.

"I still want you to watch me," Amy says. "Just maybe not cleaning you off…"

Regan's hips buck again as she figures out what Amy's saying, her free hand slapping against the wall as she wills herself not to scream.

"You like that _too_ , don't you?" Amy smiles as she slams her fingers into Reagan, her other hand already working it's way inside her own jeans, brushing against her clit as she works to bring them off together. "You want to see _that_?" she asks. "You want to see me shove my fingers, still covered in _you_ , inside _me_?"

Reagan's hand squeezes Amy's wrist as her legs buckle beneath her, her thighs shaking as she feels another orgasm rolling through her. Her eyes fall to Amy's hand, moving frantically inside her jeans as she fucks them both. She grabs Amy by the neck, pulling her into a kiss as she moans into her mouth, practically screaming as she cums, and she feels Amy's gasp, holds her close as she rides out her own, leaving them both breathless and flushed, the blonde's hands still between both their legs.

"AMY!" Karma's voice yells out from inside the apartment (how _far_ inside neither of them can really tell.) "You're missing the best part."

Reagan wraps an arm around Amy and pulls her close as they both fumble with their jeans and their buttons and their zippers, both so spent it takes them like three tries to get it right.

"You should get going," Amy whispers. "Gotta get that butter."

Reagan nods. "Yeah. And the soda," she says, smiling down at Amy. "Gonna need that caffeine," she says. "I got a feeling it's gonna be a _long_ night."

Amy smiles and blushes like she _didn't_ just fuck them both in the _hall_ and she turns to go, to head back into the apartment, but then she pauses, turning back to Reagan as she brings her fingers to her lips, tongue darting out for one last taste.

"Skip the Red Vines," she says. "And no snacks." She smiles as she sucks one finger gently between her lips, thoroughly enjoying the way Reagan's pupils dilate and her breath comes shuddering out at the sight. "I'm gonna want to have an appetite later, when there's a lot tastier things to eat."


End file.
